Gardener's Killing Time
by Argonaut57
Summary: The unusual murder of a prominent scientist and his assistant is clearly a case for Mr Steed and Mrs Peel. But what is the connection with a vial of unusual vegetable oil? Who is the mysterious Koslov, who seems to be selling the oil? Why were the victims blinded before they were killed? Then if matters weren't complicated enough, the Torchwood Institute gets involved!
1. Chapter 1

**Gardeners' Killing Time**

**Chapter One: The Ghastliness in the Greenhouse**

Emma Peel parked her white Lotus Elan next to Steeds' green Bentley on the sweeping gravel drive. She had been summoned by telephone, with the usual, crisp, "Mrs Peel, you're needed." followed by the address and a cryptic injunction to 'enter by the side gate'. Now as she got out of the car, she swept her gaze around.

It was certainly an impressive house – not quite a mansion, but close – well set back from the road. Emma noted that all the curtains were closed, which meant one of two things; either there had been a death in the house, or whatever had happened had done so at night. _Of course,_ she thought, _if Steed wants me here, it's probably both!_

The 'side gate' was set into a wall which extended out from one side of the house as if to enclose a garden, which it did. The garden itself was obviously well-tended, but showed a variety of plants not commonly found in the English garden. What drew Emmas' attention, however, was the greenhouse, a rambling, Victorian structure that took up most of the considerable acreage behind the house and looked as if it belonged in Kew Gardens. Seeing that the door stood open, she made her way in, calling out as she did so,

"Steed? Are you in here?"

"Over here, Mrs Peel!" Came the answer.

Emma pushed her way past a number of plants even more exotic than those in the garden into a more open space. This area was surrounded by benches and was clearly used for potting or setting seedlings and grafts. But several benches had been overturned, some pots broken and trays spilled, whilst the floor was scattered with earth and compost. More importantly, there were two bodies lying there, obviously quite dead.

John Steed rose to his full height from where he had been crouched beside one of the bodies, absently brushing some earth from the knees of his trousers. He was as immaculate as usual, and his hawklike features broke into his usual wry smile of greeting.

"Good morning, Mrs Peel. What do you make of this?" He asked.

"Competition at the Flower Show rather intense this year?" She asked. "I've known people ready to kill over chrysanthemums."

"Quite so." Steed replied. "But I don't think this had to do with the size of anyones' cucumbers."

He indicated the body at this feet with his umbrella. It was that of a portly gentleman in his sixties, clad in pyjamas, a dressing gown and slippers. Emma took a closer look. The fringe of hair around the head was pure white, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles lay askew across the nose. The face was jowly and might well have been benevolent in life, but now it was convulsed in shock, pain or both, and marred by an ugly, raised weal that curled from just in front of the right ear to the corner of the mouth.

"Allow me to introduce the late Professor Sir William Grafting." Steed said. "Renowned botanist, horticulturalist, biochemist and expert on edible plants and plant derivatives. The equally late gentleman over there is Mr Roger Greengrass, a graduate student and the Professors' assistant in maintaining this remarkable collection.

"Early this morning, the maid took the Professor his breakfast as usual in his bedroom, but found that he was not there, although the bed had been slept in. It was not, it seems, uncommon for the Professor to rise in the small hours if struck by an idea, so the maid went to his study. Failing to find him there, she came to the next likeliest place -this greenhouse – and found matters as you see them.

"Naturally, she summoned the police, who in turn notified me. I came out and spoke with the maid, then sent her home and called you, Mrs Peel."

Emma had been examining the other body while she listened. It was that of a sturdy young man in his twenties, with sandy hair and pleasant features, though these, like the Professors' , were distorted. His shirt was partially untucked, he wore no tie, and his feet were pushed into plimsolls without socks. _Dressed in a hurry,_ Emma concluded. There was no weal on his face, but as she examined him, she found one, identical with the Professors', across the palms of both hands. _He must have thrown them up to defend himself._ She decided, knowing that Steed would not have missed this obvious indication and would expect her to reach the same conclusion.

"Why us?" She asked. "Gardening is hardly a matter of national security."

Steed nodded. "Normally, you'd be right, Mrs Peel. But Professor Grafting was, as I said, a specialist in food plants. The population of the world is increasing geometrically, Mrs Peel, and sooner or later, ways must be found to feed all those extra mouths. Grafting was in the forefront of research aimed at discovering new foods, or new ways of producing high-yield, nourishing foods from known but previously untapped sources."

"Important work." Emma agreed. "But not something to kill over, surely?"

Steeds' face went grim. "Unfortunately, both large commercial interests and unfriendly overseas ones took a dim view of the Professors' research."

Emma absorbed this, then changed the subject. "I can't make out what they died of." She said. "There are no stab or gunshot wounds, and they weren't strangled. There's clearly been a fight here. but the only marks on ether of them are these weals. If I had to guess, I'd say they were made with some kind of whip, but they're not killing wounds, unless there was something else. Electrocution?"

"It does resemble it, at first glance." Steed allowed. "But we'd better wait for the post-mortem, I think.

"I've already checked most of the house. It looks as if both of them had gone to bed, then been roused and come down here."

Emma looked around. "This floor is covered with spilled soil. There should be footprints."

Steed nodded. "There are. One pair of slippers, one pair of plimsolls, and those."

The tracks were...odd. Two circular dots, about three inches across and a couple of feet apart; behind and between them a streak, about eighteen inches long and again, about three inches wide. The pattern repeated itself at eighteen-inch intervals, as far as Emma could see.

"Looks like a very small man on crutches." Emma hazarded. "A midget on crutches using an electric whip? We've seen some odd things, Steed, but I don't find that likely."

"Nor do I, Mrs Peel." Steed allowed. "Let's look at the Professors' study, shall we?"

The study was untidy, the untidiness of a brilliant but rather absent-minded man, but there was a clear space on the desk. Clear except for a thick file and a bottle of pink, oily liquid. Steed picked up the bottle.

"I'll take this and have it analysed." He said. "Mrs Peel, would you take the file, see what you can get out of it?"

Emma nodded and picked up the manila folder, then saw the desk diary underneath it. "I'll take this as well." She said. "Maybe it'll tell us who came calling last night?"

Steed nodded. "I'll see you later, Mrs Peel."

Once back to the flat, Emma went through the diary first. Most of the appointments seemed to be with officials from the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, or with academic colleagues. But there were two in the last week that stood out. One was with a Bill Masen, who on investigation turned out to be a biochemist employed by a company called Arctic and European Fish Oils Ltd. The other was with a man called Yuri Koslov, about whom it seemed very little was known.

Setting that aside – she would need Steeds' contacts to find out any more – she turned to the file. Emma had a wide scientific knowledge, and though botany and biochemistry were not her specialities, she could make out the general drift. Professor Grafting had been given, by this Koslov character, a sample of vegetable oil. Upon analysis, it had proved to be of "exceptionally high food value" and to come from no known species. Koslov had indicated that a near-infinite supply of this oil – or the plant which produced it - might be available at a ridiculously low price.

The Russian posed as a humanitarian, but Grafting had clearly had his doubts. He had taken a sample of the oil to Masen, to see if the well-equipped labs of Arctic and European could detect any hidden unpleasantness. Apparently, the oil was all Koslov said it was, and Grafting was promptly offered very large sums if he could obtain specimens or seeds of the plant. However, he had been cautious still, and had told both Masen and Koslov outright that he would need to consult with the Government first. Neither had been pleased by that, it seemed, but neither had made anything that could be construed as a threat.

Arctic and European were an established company with a spotless reputation. No doubt they engaged in a little industrial espionage – a company had to if it was going to survive – but Emma didn't think they'd go as far as murder.

Koslov was another matter. There had to be Iron Curtain connections, and whether he was a dissident, a saboteur or simply a crook, he would bear closer examination.

She spoke in a calm, friendly tone. "It would be polite to introduce yourself, rather than just standing there."

Emma turned slowly on the revolving desk chair, keeping her hands in view. She found herself facing a tall, dark, handsome man wearing what appeared to be a military greatcoat over an open-necked shirt and trousers. The disarming grin he offered her was given the lie by the heavy, old-fashioned revolver he kept levelled at her head.

"I don't think I'm going to introduce myself." He said in a pleasant Canadian accent. "It'd only lead to a lot of unnecessary questions from you that I wouldn't answer. Now I know your reputation, Mrs Peel, so I'm not coming any closer to you. That chair is on castors, so what I want you to do is to slide it over into that clear space on your left, just under the window. I'm only here for the file and the sample. Where is the sample, by the way?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Emma told him. "As for sliding the chair, it's quite out of the question. My landlord would hate it if I scratched his beautiful varnished floor!"

The easy charm dropped like a cloak, revealing a professional ruthlessness. "Don't try my patience, Mrs Peel." He told her in a steely tone. "I don't want to hurt you, but this is far more important than you can possibly imagine. I will use this gun if you make it necessary."

It was at that point that the handle of Steed's umbrella hooked around the elbow of the mans' gun arm and yanked sharply backwards. The gun wavered wildly and Emma moved fast, kicking him hard in the kneecap. He went down with a yelp and a crash, rolled onto his back and found the sharp steel ferrule of Steeds' umbrella an inch from his right eye. He relaxed, grinning ruefully.

"John Steed." He said. "They told me Mrs Peel had a partner, they didn't say who! If I'd known, I'd have used a different approach."

"Captain Jack Harkness, as I live and breathe." Steed replied. "What's Torchwood doing here? Murders, even odd ones, aren't your field."

Harkness shrugged. "This murder is different, Steed. It's one of ours, and I'd like to handle it, if you don't mind."

He made to get up, but Steeds' umbrella didn't move, and he relapsed.

"I do mind, Captain." Steed said sternly. "We've had more than enough of Torchwoods' high-handedness, lately. I know about your _condition_, Captain, and I don't want to bring on another, er, attack.

"If Torchwood has a legitimate involvement in this case, then we will work on it together. But I need to know what your interest is!"

Harkness sighed. "Ok, but could you at least let me up? Or do you prefer me lying at your feet?"

"The thought does have a certain appeal." Emma admitted. "But it'll probably be easier if you let him up, Steed. I've got his gun, anyway."

Steed nodded. "Very well, but keep your hands where we can see them, Captain."

"Where's the fun in that?" Harkness asked as he climbed to his feet. Then he got down to business. "The oil you found in Graftings' study, I assume you've had it analysed?"

Steed nodded. "I have."

Harkness went on. "They told you that it's a vegetable oil, highly nutritious and lacking any harmful or potentially harmful chemicals or elements, right?"

"Perhaps." Steed was giving nothing away.

Harkness gave an impatient gesture. "They also told you that the oil comes from no known species, or even genus, of plant. That whatever it is doesn't seem to be related to any vegetable or plant known, that it's not a hybrid and that the whole thing looks too good to be true!"

"So you have someone listening at the lab." Steed replied. "That hardly inspires trust, Captain."

Harkness shook his head, taking a sheet of paper out of his pocket and extending it toward Emma. "No, Steed. I know all that because Torchwood got hold of another sample and did our own analysis days ago!

"But we have equipment nobody else does. Equipment that can analyse what we call DNA, the genes themselves. This plant, whatever it is, does not come from Earth!"

"How did you come by your sample?" Emma asked.

"Guy called Koslov." Harkness explained. "He's been hawking the stuff around, quietly. Says he needs a middleman to sell the plants on to one of the big companies."

"That fits with what's in the Professors' files." Emma told Steed.

"This Koslov is playing it close." Harkness put in. "He won't say a thing about what the plant is or how he came by it until he gets his money."

"Understandable." Steed said. "He doesn't want anyone duplicating his discovery."

"But that still leaves us wondering about who killed Grafting and his associate, how and why." Emma pointed out.

Harkness shrugged and spread his hands. "We're as much in the dark about that as you, Mrs Peel. Murders, as Steed pointed out, don't usually fall into our remit until all the other agencies are baffled."

"Well, according to the post-mortem our people did," Steed announced. "both men died from poisoning. A highly virulent, fast-acting vegetable poison apparently administered through those weals. Sort of like a nettle sting, only infinitely more venomous.

"One other thing. It seems that both men suffered severe damage to their optic nerves. It's difficult to tell whether it's from the venom or not, but both of them, had they lived, would have been stone blind."

"Interesting." Harkness mused. "Would there be any problem in letting my people have a look at the bodies?"

"Not as long as they report their findings to us." Steed assented. "In the meantime, we'll look into this Koslov chap and let you know what we find. If these plants are from somewhere else, then Torchwood is welcome to deal with them. Koslov, however, is definitely from Earth, and he belongs to us. Especially if he's our killer. Agreed?"

"Agreed." Harkness allowed. "For now, anyway. I'd better go see about getting my people a look at those bodies."

Emma handed him his revolver. He looked at it and grinned. "Now what's to stop me holding this on you two and taking that file anyway?" He asked.

"Only this." Emma told him, holding out her other hand.

Harkness' grin turned rueful as he looked at the six cartridges in her open palm. "For an amateur, Mrs Peel, you're pretty slick. What other tricks have you got up your sleeve, or anywhere else?"

"Wouldn't _you _like to know!" Emma told him. "Now run along, Captain, and stay in touch!"

Not at all abashed, Harkness left with a cheery wave. Emma turned to Steed. "Torchwood?" She asked.

Steed took off his bowler and hung it, with his umbrella, on the nearby stand. "The Torchwood Institute was founded by a decree of Queen Victoria in 1879." He told her. "Its charter was 'to defend the Empire against threats from beyond this world'. They mainly do that by supposedly finding and storing any items that are considered 'alien'.

"I say they're supposed to store them, but some of us think they actually experiment with them. Trying to make weapons we can use to defend ourselves if the flying saucer men ever do invade.

"Torchwood doesn't answer to the government, the UN, or anybody. Usually, they go about their own business and don't interfere with others. But if they come across something in another organisations' case they think is 'theirs', they can get a bit high-handed about taking the case over. Lately, they've been doing more of that. They've upset UNCLE, Nemesis, MI5, MI6 and that American lot, Project Bluebook, by ordering them off cases or just stealing evidence.

"I'm afraid, Mrs Peel, that I'm not inclined to take any more of their nonsense, and our employers feel the same way."

"Well," Emma said, "I do hope Captain Harkness has taken note."


	2. Chapter 2

**Gardeners' Killing Time**

**Chapter Two: The Blinded Man in the Garden**

Jack Harkness was by turns furious and apprehensive. On the one hand, he was angry at the upper echelons of Torchwood. He had told them time and again that their arrogance in handling relations with other agencies would lead to trouble in the end, as indeed it had now. On the other, he was worried; of all the people who might have been looking over his shoulder on this case, John Steed was the one he least wanted to tangle with. The man might pose as the epitome of effete English public-school dilettantism, but his record showed a hard-bitten, ruthless professionalism that made him one of the most dangerous men Jack knew of. It seemed that his partner, the 'talented amateur' Emma Peel, was equally formidable.

Well, better to work openly with them than have them working against him!

Back at Torchwood, Jack looked over the analysis of the oil again, as well as the results of the Institutes' autopsies on the victims. There wasn't much new – neither the oil nor the venom came from any species native to Earth, but clearly originated from the same plant. Presumably the venom was some kind of defence mechanism the plant had evolved on its own world, anything so high in nutritional value for carbon-based life-forms would be at risk from the moment it sprouted, after all.

The damage to the optic nerves of the victims was something else, however. It was clearly radiation damage, but so intense and precise that it could only be artificial. That meant advanced technology, which in turn meant that the plant had been brought here deliberately. But by whom and why?

Jack sighed. There were governments and corporations who would give a not-so-small fortune for exclusive access to this plant. The oil could be used - as fish and other vegetable oils were – as an ingredient in many food products as well as just margarine and cooking oil. Then, even if the plant itself was not edible by humans for any reason, there were other uses. The pulped remains, after the oil had been extracted, could be used as cattle feed, or as fertiliser for other crops. Jack knew that within the next decade, serious food crises would begin to occur in Africa and elsewhere. If this plant was prolific and easy to grow then that, along with its incredible food value, would make it either an invaluable resource, a serious money-spinner, or both! Not to mention the political benefits of exclusive control of a food-source large portions of the world would soon desperately need.

But if these aliens wanted to help humanity, why do so in such a secretive manner? Why the killings? On the other hand, why bring in something of such obvious benefit if their intentions were hostile?

_Bait._ Jack thought. _But what's the trap and who's it for?_

Then the phone rang.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Jack parked the Torchwood Land-Rover next to Steeds' Bentley on the drive of a Surrey villa. Steed and Mrs Peel were already there.

"What's going on?" He asked.

Steed replied crisply. "Our office got an emergency call from this residence. It's the home of Dr Albert Sundew. He's an expert on carnivorous and venomous plants who occasionally consults for us. He seems to have been attacked in some way. He's alive but injured, and holed up in his summerhouse in the garden. Fortunately, he works out there in warm weather, and has a phone extension.

"Let's go and get him."

"Why us and not an ambulance?" Jack asked.

"Apparently the injury is an unusual one." Emma told him. "And since he's another plant expert, there might be a link to our case."

Like most English gardens, this one had a large sweep of lawn. However, instead of borders of flowers, this was fringed with tall shrubs and trees, creating areas of deep shade along the margins. A wide gravel path led to the summerhouse. This was a round structure with a pointed roof. The walls were perhaps waist-high, allowing plenty of fresh air to flow between the poles that supported the roof, and there was a doorway but no door. Inside, they could see a desk with a man sitting at it, head in hands, in an attitude of utter dejection.

They started along the path, Steed in front, Jack bringing up the rear. In the still summer day, the crunch of their footsteps was clearly audible. The man in the summerhouse lifted his head and turned it in their direction, but Steed noticed something odd about the way he held it.

But there was something else, something they all noticed. A sound coming from the shaded fringe of the garden. They froze at once, but the sound wasn't repeated. Gesturing the others to be still, Steed took two deliberate steps forward. The sound came again, the shifting of some heavy body or object.

By common consent, the three of them left the path for the soundless surface of the lawn. Jack drew his revolver, noting that Emma had produced an undersized but lethal automatic. Steed merely tightened his grip on his umbrella.

They reached the summerhouse without further incident.

"Dr Sundew?" Steed said.

The man stared around him wildly and held out his hand in the direction of Steeds' voice.

"Steed? Is that you?" He gasped. "There's something here, but I can't see!"

"No, it's hidden in the shrubbery." Steed allowed. Sundew shook his head despairingly.

"You don't understand!" He cried. "I can't see _anything_! I'm blind, man, stone blind!"

"Uh-oh!" Jack said in a low tone. "We've got company!"

It was coming out of the shrubbery toward the summerhouse, definitely some kind of plant, but not like any kind of plant even Jack had seen. The main body was woody-looking bole about four feet high, from the top of which grew three rigid twigs, each about a foot long, a cluster of glossy green leaves and a thick stem perhaps three feet long which ended in a trumpet-like structure. From the bottom of the bole grew three stubby, root-like structures on which the plant was _walking_. It moved as if on crutches, pushing the two 'front' roots forward, then dragging the third up to them, before pushing forward again. It appeared clumsy, but moved quickly.

Jack darted out of the summerhouse across the lawn, then fired twice into the plant. The slugs blew chunks off the bole, but otherwise seemed to do no harm. But the thing immediately changed direction, making directly for Jack. He held still, waiting, hoping to get a clear shot at the base of the stem, where the thing might be vulnerable. He never got the chance. The plant suddenly leaned forward and stretched out its stem toward him. From the trumpet a long, slender, whip-like tentacle shot out and lashed him across the face. Jack went down as if he'd been pole-axed.

Emma, who had moved in a different direction, immediately opened fire. She knew her small pistol would do even less harm than Jacks' had done, but she'd guessed that the plant was sightless and attracted by sound. She was trying to draw the thing away from Jack, then all she had to do was stay out of the range of that stinger!

It was then that Steeds' bowler hat, flung with precision and force, slammed into the stem. The hat was custom-made, lined with chain-mail and with a steel ring around the brim that sliced into the stem, inflicting a deep cut. The plant immediately stopped, and appeared to be trying to move the damaged limb.

Steed signalled Emma to silence, then approached the plant, cat-footed, drawing the long blade from the hollow core of his umbrella. A single cut sufficed to completely sever the stem. The plant was still for a moment, then began a series of convulsive movements which quickly buried its roots in the lawn.

Emma dashed over to Jack. There was a livid mark across his face, identical to those she'd seen on Professor Grafting and his assistant. She felt for a pulse and found none.

Steed, meanwhile, had put away his sword, retrieved his hat and instructed Dr Sundew to stay put. Now he came over. Emma looked up.

"He's dead, Steed." She said.

"Quite so." Steed replied, unruffled. "He should be back with us shortly."

Emma was not sure how to respond to this, then the corpse beside her made a convulsive movement. She turned to look just as Jacks' eyes flew open and he took in a deep, shuddering breath.

"So glad you could rejoin us, Captain." Steed said imperturbably. "If you're sufficiently rested, there are things we need to be doing."

Jack got to his feet, apparently none the worse for wear. "Bet I've got grass-stains on this coat again." He remarked sourly. "Did you kill it?"

"I rather doubt it." Steed allowed. "But we did at least render it harmless. It appears to have rooted itself, possibly in order to speed recovery."

Steed turned to approach the plant. Jack made to follow, but Emma caught his arm.

"Do you mind explaining what just happened?" She asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do." Jack told her. "For one thing, it's my business. For another, well, it's complicated."

The look in his eyes was one part undirected anger and three parts incredible sadness. Emma left it alone.

Steed was within a few feet of the plant when it began to quiver again. He stopped at once. The others joined him as the three twigs began to twitch, beating a complicated tattoo against the bole.

"What the Hell is it doing?" Jack wanted to know. "Begging for mercy or calling for help?"

Then a bolt of something - flame, light, none of them could tell – shot from the far corner of the garden and stuck the plant, which immediately burst into fierce flame.

Jack took off in the direction the bolt had come from. Steed told Emma "Get Sundew inside!", then followed Jack.

There was a trail beaten through the shrubbery which made it easy to follow. Unfortunately, it also made it easy for the person fleeing to get a good head start. They reached the boundary of the garden to find that a section of the brick wall had been removed. Darting through, they saw a large van being driven off at high speed.

"You get the number?" Jack asked Steed.

"Naturally." Steed replied. "Though I don't expect it to be much help. Our antagonist would not have neglected to cover his tracks in purchasing or hiring the vehicle."

"I'll bet." Jack agreed. "Well, at least we know how he got that thing into the garden. These bricks have been carefully moved. Must have taken a couple days. This is a quiet back road, no houses, anyone passing would just have seen a guy doing his job."

They made their way back to the garden. There was a slowly-dispersing cloud of oily-smelling black smoke. The deadly plant was already a pile of ashes, and there was a ring of scorched and blackened grass around it.

"Ruined the lawn." Steed remarked regretfully.

Jack had never quite understood the English obsession with what was, after all, just a patch of grass. The care and attention some people gave this, the most boring and utilitarian part of any garden except the path, bordered, to his thinking, on obsessive-compulsive behaviour. So he contented himself by remarking:

"Good job this has been a typical British summer. If the ground and grass hadn't been damp, the fire could have spread to the house."

Steed stirred the ashes with his umbrella: "Anything with this much oil in it would burn like a torch. Clever way to make sure we can't study it."

"But we do have some of it!" Jack said triumphantly, pointing to one side. The stem which Steed had cut off lay, intact, just outside the scorched area. "I can get that back to Torchwood and we can take it apart."

Steed prodded the stem with the tip[ of his umbrella, getting no reaction. They found a sack in the garden shed and carefully coiled the stem into it, then went into the house, where they found Emma waiting in the living room.

"I called Sundews' doctor, and he came straight round." She told them. "Sundew is absolutely fine except for the blindness and shock. He's had a sedative and the doctor will stay with him until his daughter gets here."

"Did you find out what happened?" Steed asked.

Emma shrugged. "He couldn't tell me much. Apparently he went outside to the summerhouse earlier today. He heard a sound and looked up. He remembers a bright green flash that dazzled him for a moment. When he realised he wasn't recovering from the dazzle, he phoned for help while he could still see to dial, but by the time we got here, he was completely blind.

"Steed, I think whoever did this blinded him so that plant could get him!"

Steed nodded. "Yes. A blind man blundering his way across the garden, probably shouting for help, would have been easy prey for the thing."

"But why bother?" Jack asked. "Why not just send the plant after him? It took me down, and I can see!"

"It does seem a little elaborate." Steed admitted. "But there may be more to this than we currently know.

"In the meantime, what's our next step?"

"You two come back with me to Torchwood." Jack decided. "And we get this analysed." He hefted the sack that contained the stem. "My people have resources yours don't, so we can find out a lot more."


	3. Chapter 3

**Gardeners' Killing Time**

**Chapter Three: Research**

Torchwood One, as Jack referred to it, was located behind and beneath a discreet brokerage business just outside the Square Mile.

"We have to move the place every few decades." Jack told them. "We've been here since 1914. This place was some kinda warehouse before that, so there's plenty of room."

A white-coated technician made off with the stem of the killer plant, and Jack led Steed and Emma to an office where Steed made some phone calls.

"We were right about the van." He told them. "It was hired from a commercial vehicle supplier by a small building company. One which does not actually exist. The fee was paid in cash in advance, and the driving licence was in the name of Alan Brent. Which is odd, because Brent died thirty years ago, at the age of seven.

"However, the young lady who arranged the hire did give us a good description of the customer. It matches with that of our elusive Russian friend, Mr Koslov.

"Captain Harkness, I suggest that rather than wait here for your boffins to poke that stem about, Mrs Peel and I attempt to find out a little more about Koslov."

Emma was settled in the tea-room at Claridges, and about to address herself to a plate of scones, when a shadow loomed over her.

"May I join you?" Asked the tall dark man in a suave American accent.

Emma indicated the seat opposite. "When I asked to speak to someone from UNCLE," she remarked, "I hardly expected you to turn up, Mr Solo. Do have a scone. Shall I order another pot of tea?"

Napoleon Solo seated himself and shook his head. "Coffee for me, please." He split a scone, adding jam and clotted cream in a manner that showed he was fully familiar with the English cream tea.

Emma sighed. "You do realise, don't you, that America will never scale the heights of culture until you rid yourselves of the pernicious custom of drinking coffee in the afternoons?

"That apart, I'm still wondering why UNCLE sent me one of their top field agents for a simple enquiry?"

Solo smiled easily. "I was on my way back from Istanbul, had to report in at our London office. I heard about your enquiry there, and couldn't resist the opportunity to spend a little time in your company, Mrs Peel."

"I'm flattered." Emma didn't believe a word of it, and was fully aware that Solo knew she didn't. _This is bigger than we know._ She thought.

"So, do you have anything for me?" She asked.

"Not on Koslov, no." Solo admitted. "He hasn't come to our notice, nor has he ever been to the States. However, the product you say he's been peddling has been offered, by another person, to some interests in the US. The FDA are wondering where it comes from, and asked us to see if it's been offered elsewhere. It seems to have been offered to the British, the French and the West Germans, about the Soviets, we don't know.

"Since by the sound of things, it's not just a normal business proposition, my boss wants to know if there's anything else you can tell us."

"I'll have to get clearance from my people to fully brief yours." Emma told him. "But for now, let me just say there's more to this than vegetable oil. Two men are dead and another's been crippled. You need to warn your people, especially scientists, to be careful. I'll speak to Steed and ask him to make sure Mr Waverley is informed of everything we have.

"Another scone?"

"Not today, Mrs Peel." Solo replied. "I've had quite enough cream for one day. Perhaps next time we can meet for dinner?"

"Perhaps." She smiled.

Solo left, finding his way to a quiet corner of the lobby, where he took a pen from his pocket. "Open channel D." He said quietly.

Despite the bustle of nearby Piccadilly, Green Park manages to be quiet. Quiet enough for civilised conversation in any event. Of course, it is also far too open to be bugged. Steed walked briskly along, then slowed as he came alongside another gentleman out for a stroll.

In contrast to the immaculate Steed, this man seemed slightly shambolic. Not that his clothes were shabby, but they didn't seem to fit him properly. Part of that was to do with his general shape and posture, he was a short, rather plump man with untidy grey hair and thick spectacles on an instantly forgettable face. He looked like – and indeed sometimes was – a rather absent-minded university lecturer.

"Good afternoon, Mr Smiley." Steed greeted him.

"Mr Steed. It's not common for you athletic young chaps to come asking questions of the old buffers at the Circus." Smileys' voice was soft and precise, giving the lie to his bumbling facade.

"These are uncommon times." Steed told him. "This chap Koslov seems likelier to have fallen into your in-tray than mine, and I didn't want to waste time on finding things out about him that you already know."

"Quite so." Smiley nodded. "Konstantin Grigorievitch Koslov, born in a suburb of Moscow some thirty-eight years ago. Parents were factory workers. Young Konstantin was an average student, served his time in the Pioneers and Komsomol, but it seems that he was possessed of an entrepreneurial turn of mind. The Workers' Paradise provides little in the way of luxury goods and our friend Koslov decided to take advantage of this.

"His black market operations brought him to the notice of the State Police and some three years ago he was obliged to leave his homeland. Ironically, it is far easier for those of a criminal persuasion to escape the Soviet Union than it is for political dissidents. Certain rivals in Koslovs' line of business were sufficiently eager to be rid of him without police entanglements that they aided his exit at a considerable discount.

"Since then he has operated in London as a buyer and seller of goods on the fringes of legality. Pornography that skirts the edges of the obscenity laws, cigarettes and spirits that may or may not have paid their excise duty, imported gramophone records and so on.

"However, some six months ago he abandoned all these businesses and seems to have acquired steady and well-paid employment, attempting to sell some kind of edible oil. Naturally, we looked into the matter. The producer of the oil remains stubbornly invisible, but we can be sure that it is not the KGB. The fact that UNCLE is exercised on the matter – your colleague Mrs Peel is meeting with Napoleon Solo as we speak, as you are doubtless aware – indicates that the Cousins are as worried as we. That leaves the Chinese, but our analysts tell us that, given their massive over-population problems, they would almost certainly take all steps to keep such a discovery to themselves."

Steed considered. "If UNCLE are at a loss, we can assume that THRUSH are not involved. This is not the kind of play SPECTRE would make – it's too subtle. HYDRA?"

Smiley shook his head. "HYDRA have recently suffered some severe defeats at the hands of this new SHIELD organisation. Our intelligence indicates that they are retrenching and rebuilding their forces and resources at this time."

Smiley stopped and faced Steed directly. Behind the heavy glasses, his eyes were piercing, icy and unwavering. He spoke deliberately:

"It may be, Mr Steed, that this matter does indeed fall within the remit of your new allies at Torchwood. Should that be the case, I urge you to remember that Torchwoods' brief is to capture and study, not destroy. It is the opinion of my people that they are already in possession of far too many dangerous things. We are relying on you to use your discretion in this matter."

"Understood." Steed replied.

The two men parted, going in opposite directions. After a while, Steed sat down on one of the benches that lined the path at intervals. He sat for a while, as if deep in thought, chin resting on the handle of his umbrella. Then he stood up and set off at a brisk pace. It would have taken a very careful observer to note the manila envelope he now carried in his pocket.

Back at Torchwood, Steed and Emma filled each other and Jack in on what they had learned, then Jack made his contribution, introducing a fair-hired man in a white coat and wearing an Old Etonian tie.

"This is Dr Mallard," Jack told them, "on secondment from the RAMC. Show us what you've got, Ducky!"

Wincing slightly at the nickname, Mallard began to speak in a precise tone:

"The genetics people tell me that the stem is definitely from the same plant that produces both the venom and the edible oil.

"The specimen completely flummoxed our botanical colleagues, so I was asked to examine it. I dissected the stem and frankly I must confess myself puzzled. There are structures in it that, if they appeared in an animal, I would not hesitate to classify as muscles and nerves."

"Plants don't have either of those!" Emma protested.

"Some plants move – Venus fly traps, for instance." Steed pointed out.

"I know, Steed." Emma explained. "But they do that by using chemical reactions to move water from one chamber to another, making it swell. It's all hydraulics."

"Precisely." Mallard agreed. "Whereas in animals, the muscles move by contracting under electro-chemical stimulation from the nerves. Now the muscular-appearing structures in the stem are not reactive to electrical stimuli, as animal musculature is, but do respond to certain protein-based compounds. The structures I described as being nerve-like are simply tubes which carry these compounds from sacs where they appear to be manufactured to key points in the, for want of a better word, muscles.

"However this is done, it renders the stem capable of remarkably controlled and multi-directional action. The plant can direct the stem in any direction and at almost any angle.

"The bell- or trumpet-like structure at the tip of the stem appears to be multi-functional. Much of it is filled with a clear gel, a type of sticky nectar whose main components are fruit sugars and powerful digestive enzymes. The sugars attract insects which become caught in the gel and are digested."

"So the plant is carnivorous?" Emma asked.

"Indeed." Dr Mallard replied. "But as with the carnivorous plants we are familiar with, the captured insects probably provide only a supplement to the usual feeding mechanisms. A plant of the size you describe could not sustain itself on the few insects this stem could capture. I surmise that its major feeding patterns remain standard photosynthesis and the drawing up of nutrients via the roots.

"But all this is purely of scientific interest. For all practical purposes, the most interesting aspect of the plant is this!" As he spoke, he uncoiled the long stinging tentacle. "This tentacle or stinger rests tightly coiled inside the bell until needed. It is extended by the same pseudo-muscular action as the stem, but the tissues are much denser, making the sting more powerful in proportion to its thickness. The last six or eight inches, of the far end are filled with sacs which produce a virulent contact poison, rapidly lethal to almost all animal life. Each sac has a small opening out of which the poison is forced by the impact of the sting striking.

"As to the plants' origin, we remain as much in the dark as ever!"

"Thanks, Ducky. Send Major Roberts in, please." Jack said. He turned to Steed and Emma. "Major Roberts – Long Tom, as we call him – is our expert in electromagnetic radiation and related fields. He's been looking into what might have blinded the victims."

'Long Tom' was appropriate, as the man who came into the room was at least six-and-a-half feet tall. He was thin, slightly stooped, with a pale, sickly-looking face. He might have been in his late fifties or early sixties, but Emma thought his eyes looked much older. He was carrying an odd-looking device, which he placed on the table in front of them. It looked like a cross between a pistol and a torch. Long Tom spoke without preamble in an American accent.

"I looked at the medical reports and checked through all the information we have on any kind of radiation or shock that might have caused the blindness. This was what I found – the symptoms were identical to the damage caused by this weapon.

"That's good and bad news. Good because we know how to block this radiation. Bad because we know someone has one of these things, and they couldn't have gotten it from Earth!"

"You're absolutely sure about that?" Jack asked.

Long Tom nodded gravely. "The weapon works by emitting a focused beam of a specific radiation. But the element which produces the radiation doesn't occur in our periodic table. By that I mean we can tell where it fits in the table, but it's never been found on Earth and we can't synthesise it with the technology we have."

"Thanks, Major." Jack said. Long Tom withdrew, going directly to his own cubicle-like office.

Once there, he took from his desk drawer a device that resembled a large, elaborate wristwatch. Strapping it on, he turned a dial and spoke quietly but clearly:

"Long Tom Three to Savage, come in?"

The voice that came out of the device was rich, deep, commanding. "Savage. Are you well, brother?"

"I'm fine, but we may have a problem." Long Tom quickly outlined the situation. There was a moments' silence, followed by an odd, trilling sound. Then the deep voice spoke again.

"Very well. Monk has examined the toxicology reports you sent, and feels certain he will be able to synthesise an antivenin should the problem become widespread. As to the rest, I am familiar with John Steed, and we can rely on him to take the appropriate action, regardless of any ideas Captain Harkness may have.

"When will you be able to return to Hidalgo, brother? You will require more serum soon."

Long Tom sighed. "I'm OK, Doc, good for a month or two yet. There are a couple more files I need to copy and send, then I'm out of here and back home. I'll call when I'm ready."

"As long as you are sure." The man called Savage replied. "But remember, a few files from Torchwood we can do without, you I cannot spare."

Back in the main office, Jack was saying: "Well, all that pretty much puts the game in my park, Steed. It's clear this thing is extra-terrestrial, which makes it Torchwood business. So if you and Mrs Peel want to leave this to me and my people from now on, it's no problem."

Steeds' voice was as suave as his eyes were steely. "I'm afraid not, Captain. I know you have to try, but my orders are clear. Mrs Peel and I are to stay with this case until it is thoroughly cleared up. The attacks on scientists and the involvement of Mr Koslov all place the matter very much within our remit. A remit, I might add, which extends very much further than yours."

Emma watched as the two men locked gazes for a moment. Not for the first time, she wondered about Steed. For all their closeness and the regard in which he clearly held her, he remained in many ways an enigma. She was still unsure of who it was he actually worked for, and exactly how much power and influence he wielded. Oh, he pretended to be the amateur, the gentleman spy, but there was a level of ruthlessness about him that spoke of absolute professionalism. Even now, it was the formidable Jack Harkness who broke eye contact first.

"Fine, if that's how you want to play it." He said with mock insouciance. Then more seriously: "I can't deny I'll be glad of the back-up." He shook his head. "You guys are more trouble than the Ministry of Magic!"

"Ministry of _what_?" Emma demanded, between amusement and shock.

Steed made a dismissive gesture. "Old Service joke." He told her. "I'll explain it another time, Mrs Peel."

Emma knew better than to pursue the matter. Steed would tell her nothing until he was ready to, she knew, and some things he would never tell her.

Then the phone rang. Jack picked it up. "Harkness." He said. He listened for a few moments, and his face went grim, then he said, "We'll be right there."

He put the phone down and looked at them both. "OK," he said without a trace of his usual levity, "this just got big, and very nasty!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Gardeners' Killing Time**

**Chapter Four: Act of Extortion**

The Botanical Gardens, on a summers' day, were usually crowded with people, but as Jack, Steed and Emma pulled up in the Torchwood Land Rover, the last of the crowds were leaving. Not because it was closing time, but because they were being shepherded out by uniformed police officers.

It was a very British evacuation of course. Mothers hushing squalling children, the occasional irate voice talking about having their money back, usually immediately followed by a gentle "Don't make a fuss, dear.". But all was calm and orderly.

They made their way to small gate beside the ticket booth, where Steed showed his card to the constable on duty.

"Ah." Remarked that stolid individual. "They told us to expect the funny people. The Tropical Conservatory, go down the main path and follow the signs."

"I gotta love you Brits." Jack remarked as they went down the well-tended path. "The uniforms don't call us the 'spooks', or 'G-men', or 'Feds'. No, they call us the 'funny people'. Don't know what they think is funny about us."

"I should imagine," Emma told him, "that it's a case of 'funny peculiar' rather than 'funny ha-ha'."

The Tropical Conservatory was a monument to Victoriana. A large glass and wrought iron structure that rose unexpectedly out of the flowerbeds. At this moment, it was not looking at its best, however. Several panes of glass had been broken, the main door as off its hinges, and whisps of grey smoke curled through the gaps.

Over to one side, half a dozen ambulances and two fire appliances were parked near what appeared to be a hastily-erected canvas shelter. Under its shadow were numerous stretchers, white-coated doctors and primly-starched nurses moving among them with quiet efficiency. Beyond this was a small huddle of camping stools, occupied by ordinary-looking people being tended and served tea by uniformed ambulancemen and WPCs. Almost hidden by one of the appliances was a row of blanket-covered but grimly unmistakable shapes.

Nearer the entrance to the Conservatory, there were a collection of very different vehicles. Two Land Rovers, three trucks – all clearly military – and an armoured vehicle of some kind. As the three approached, there was a ripple of automatic fire from somewhere inside, followed by a few brisk commands.

"Probably best if we wait here a bit." Steed commented. "Let these lads do their job."

Neither Jack nor Emma was inclined to disagree, and anyway, it seemed that the job was pretty much done, since a few moments later a number of men in battledress and gas-masks, heavily armed, emerged. The one who came out last sent the others over to the trucks with a gesture, glanced around, spotted Steed and the others, and came over, removing his mask as he did so.

He proved to be a thirty-something man with a strong, handsome face decorated with a neat moustache. He came up and extended a hand to Steed.

"Mr Steed? I was told to expect you. Brigadier Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart, United Nations intelligence Taskforce." His voice was brisk and matter-of-fact.

"Good afternoon, Brigadier." Steed replied. "I didn't know UNIT was active yet."

"Well, technically we aren't." The Brigadier admitted. "But when the MoD chaps heard what was going on here, they decided to send us in. Officially, this is an exercise."

"And unofficially?" Steed asked.

"Well, the police tell us that witnesses saw a flash of light, then about half of the people in the building went blind. Obviously, there was a lot of blundering around and shouting. Some of the curators could still see, and they started to get people heading for the doors, but found them locked.

"Then, they started being attacked by walking plants with stingers of some kind. Fortunately, there's an office in there with a phone, and somebody had the sense to dial 999. Meanwhile some of the groundskeepers outside had heard the row and managed to break the door open and start getting people out. The police came, saw what was happening, got everyone out, barricaded the door and started to evacuate the gardens.

"We got the call and got here the same time as the medical people and the Fire Brigade. My men and I went in to get the casualties out and deal with the hostile vegetation. Excuse me a moment.

"Yes, Sergeant Benton?"

"Sir, we've cleared the area, all the hostiles have been killed and all the casualties removed. Eighteen civilians killed, all adults. Seems those stinger things went over the kids' heads." The husky young Sergeant had a kindly face, but his manner was steady and precise.

"What about our lot?" Asked the Brigadier.

"A few bruises and black eyes from stinger hits, but the masks stopped the poison. Oh, and Simmonds has come out in a rash, sir. Some kind of pollen allergy, the medic says. We're starting to remove the remains of those plant things for the boffins to look over."

"Very good. Carry on, Sergeant." The Brigadier turned back to Steed. "Well that's our bit about finished. Time for you Intelligence chaps to start yours. And no, Captain Harkness, Torchwood will not be claiming the plant specimens. They'll go to UNIT labs for examination."

"You don't seem terribly phased by all of this, Brigadier." Emma commented, trying hard not to chuckle at Jacks' look of chagrin.

The Brigadier gave her a wry smile. "The reason I was transferred to UNIT is because this isn't the first time I've dealt with odd occurrences, Mrs Peel. Earlier this year I was involved in a quite nasty business in the Underground."

"The papers said that was a gas leak of some kind." Emma said.

Lethbridge-Stewart shrugged. "Well, we could hardly tell people that giant, furry robots were running amok down there, could we? You didn't exactly announce the Cybernauts to the world, either.

"Mind, if it hadn't been for that Doctor chap, I'm not sure we'd have managed."

"Doctor?" Jack was suddenly intense, urgent. "_The_ Doctor?"

"That's what he called himself." the Brigadier allowed. "Never gave any other name. Eccentric fellow, but quite brilliant, in a nonsensical kind of way. Know him?"

"What did he look like?" Jack gritted.

The Brigadier held his hand out level with his shoulder. "About this tall, forty-fiftyish, dark hair, puckish sort of face. Had a Scots lad with him and a young lady called Victoria."

Jack shook his head. "Not the right one, too early. If you see him again, Brigadier, don't mention me. It'll only cause problems."

Lethbridge-Stewart looked hard at Jack. "You have a history with this Doctor?" He asked.

"Not with that particular Doctor, no." Jack admitted. "It's complicated, Brigadier. Let's just say that I don't know that specific Doctor and he doesn't know me."

"So there are more than one?" The Brigadier insisted.

"Yes." Jack was clearly unwilling to say any more.

Then the field telephone rang. The Brigadier went to answer it, then called Steed over.

Steed accepted the handset. "Steed here." He said.

"Mr Steed, this is Smiley. A short while ago the Metropolitan Police received a telephone call referring to the incident at the Gardens. The caller indicated that further such occurrences could be avoided by paying the sum of five hundred thousand pounds at a time and place of his choice, which would be communicated in due course.

"I have had my people watching Koslov, and at the time the call was made, he was in a public call-box. After he left that, my agent shadowed him to a house in the suburbs. This is the address..."

It was a very ordinary, very respectable suburban villa, standing in its own little plot, surrounded by low brick walls topped with neatly trimmed privet. The three agents had parked the Land Rover in the next street and approached on foot. Nearby was a small grassy area with a few park-benches. On one of these a man was sitting, quietly smoking, a very ordinary-looking fellow in a fawn windcheater jacket.

Steeds topped in front of the man. "Pleasant day." He remarked.

"Better than Tuesday." Was the reply, identifying the man as the Circus 'lamplighter' Smiley had told them was following Koslov. "Nothing in or out," he went on, "no rear access."

"Stay here." Steed told him. "If he comes out and we're not with him or after him, follow but don't contact. Signal the Circus when he goes to ground."

The three of them crossed to the villa, going in through the front gate. The front garden was tidy, if not passionately tended, and the prim lace curtains were clean. Koslov knew how to blend in, if this was his house.

No time was wasted. They moved directly to the front door, Jack drew his heavy revolver and blew the lock out, kicking the door open. Steed remained in the doorway with a clear view through hall and kitchen to the back door. Jack and Emma split up, guns out, Jack taking the ground floor and Emma the upstairs.

It took only moments for Emma to come down. "Nothing." She said. Jack appeared at the same time. "Nobody home." He added.

Steed nodded and came into the house, stopping at a door under the staircase.

"In some houses," he said, "this just leads to a little cupboard, but in others..." He opened the door quietly, revealing a short flight of steps. Below they saw the glow of electric light and heard a hissing, static noise. They went down quickly and quietly.

The basement was surprisingly spacious, but still looked crowded. There were stacks of cardboard boxes, a safe, a blackboard with a map of London pinned to it, and a desk. The desk was cluttered with notebooks and street maps, but at the centre was the source of the sound. It looked like a small television set, the screen showing the familiar 'snowstorm' that indicated no channel was being received, the speaker emitting the static hiss.

In front of the desk was a chair, and sprawled in the chair, head thrown back, thin face pale and lifeless, eyes empty, was Konstantin Koslov, quite dead.

"Well, there goes our best, and only, lead." Jack said dourly.

"You don't think he was the one behind all this?" Emma asked.

Jack shook his head. "Solo told you, and Smiley told Steed, that other people were hawking the oil around in Europe and the States. Koslov was just a messenger boy.

"I think he got greedy, decided to do a little extortion of his own. Half a million is enough for anyone to live happily on for years. Only whoever he was working for got to him before he could finish his scheme."

"The question is, how?" Steed said. "We've searched the house, and there's nobody here. The lamplighter outside said that nobody had come or gone since Koslov and there's no other way to get into the house. Since he'll be one of Toby Esterhases' people, I'm inclined to take him at his word."

"There are no wounds or marks on the body." Emma pointed out. "No cups or anything on the table to indicate poison."

"Kitchen was clean." Jack added. "He hadn't eaten or drunk anything since he came in. Gas?"

"No." Emma said. "This basement isn't that well ventilated. If he'd been gassed, we'd be feeling it."

Steed held up his hand. "Listen!" He said sharply.

For a moment, neither of them understood, then they realised the static hiss had stopped. They turned to look at the small screen. The snowstorm had vanished, instead the screen was showing a swirling pattern, like some kind of mandala. As they focused on it, a voice came out of the speaker. A quiet, calm, insinuating tenor:

"Such poor minds they set against me." It said. "The information is all around you. All you need to find me. Your ends are, of course, inevitable. Are you intelligent enough to leave now, to save your lives for a little longer? Or will you seek me out and die today?"

The screen went back to snowstorm, and the hissing resumed.

"Pleasant sort of chap." Steed remarked.

"He's been practising his Evil Villain speeches, that's for sure!" Jack added.

"Not that well." Emma pointed out. "He forgot the menacing laugh at the end."

With that, they set about searching the basement. The cardboard boxes proved to contain sample flasks of the pink oil. On the desk was a ledger listing every company in Britain who might possibly have an interest in using the oil. There were names of people, telephone numbers, times and dates of appointments beside each company.

"Busy boy." Emma remarked.

The map had coloured pins marking addresses that tallied with those in the ledger.

"Looks like a red pin means not contacted, a yellow one appointment made and green one appointment kept." Jack noted. "Methodical guy."

"Then he should," Steed said, "have some record of where he was getting the oil from."

It was Emma who found the RAC roadmap. A clear route was marked in red ink, beginning in London and ending on the outskirts of a small village on Romney Marsh.

Jack was all for setting out at once, but Steed shook his head.

"If our faceless friend was telling the truth – and he has no reason not to – then nothing is going to happen just yet." He pointed out. "It's been a trying day, and we'll all do the better for a meal and a nights' sleep. We'll make a start in the morning."


	5. Chapter 5

**Gardeners' Killing Time**

**Chapter Five: A Commercial Proposition**

Romney Marsh is one of the least-developed and most thinly-populated areas in Britain, spreading into the counties of Kent and East Sussex. It is a flat, wild landscape of wetland and reclaimed 'levels', crisscrossed with narrow, twisting roads and both hidden and open drainage channels. Once a noted area of wool-production, famed for the hardy breed of sheep named after it, it has declined in importance. Its major claim to fame is now the fact that the town of Dymchurch-under-the-Wall was the headquarters and home of the notorious Dr Christopher Syn, mild-mannered vicar by day, and the dread Scarecrow, leader of the local smugglers, by night.

Greatstone-on-Sea is a smaller town than Dymchurch, being more of a large village, but does boast a fine beach. On the basis of this, an enterprising soul had built a Holiday Camp just outside the town, which appeared to be doing reasonably well. Jack Harkness was driving past the entrance to this park, a good two hours early for the rendezvous with Steed and Emma, when he saw the green Bentley and the white Lotus casually parked each side of the narrow road. A tall, bowler-hatted figure leaning against the Bentley offered him a cheery wave. Jack swore and pulled over.

"Captain Harkness!" Steed greeted him heartily. "I see you decided to get an early start as well."

Jack decided to be blunt "No, Steed, I was trying to get here before you two and finish this myself! It's not about kudos or another notch on my gun, either.

"Look, Ducky did the post-mortem on Koslov. He was poisoned by the same plant venom we've been finding everywhere. Somebody implanted a capsule of the stuff in him along with a device that released the poison by remote control.

"We're dealing with someone or something who is years, maybe decades, in advance of our technology. This is what Torchwood is for. You guys are good at what you do, but you're not trained for anything like this."

"Possibly not." Emma told him. "Though I could argue that Cybernauts, invisible men and costumed vigilantes who walk up walls aren't so very different from your stock in trade, Jack. But the simple fact is that advanced science and technology aren't always going to be the preserve of little green men.

"Now we're staying with this case until we find out who's behind this. If it turns out to be a human spy or crook, he's ours. If it is some kind of spaceman, he's yours. Agreed?"

Emma was clearly anxious to pursue this diplomatic avenue, but Jack looked at Steed. The mans' face was implacable. Jack knew Steeds' reputation, knew that this suave English gentleman was quite capable of 'killing' him and leaving him handcuffed in the boot of one of the cars if he deemed it necessary. A fight between the two of them would be drawn-out and brutal, and Jack was by no means sure he could win.

"Agreed." He allowed, reluctantly. "We'll take my car."

They left the Bentley and the Lotus in a pub car park, and drove on through the town in an awkward silence. Awkward enough for Emma to break it by pointing off to one side and asking "What are those?"

Jack barely glanced at the concrete structures at the top of a cliff. "Bunkers from the War, I should think."

"Actually, no." Steed put in. "Those are acoustic mirrors. If you saw them from the other side, they'd look a bit like radar dishes. They started experimenting with them in the Great War. The idea is that they collect and concentrate sound. The thinking was to build enough of them round the coast to give advance warning of Zeppelin and later bomber raids.

"They never perfected the system, and of course it was superseded by radar."

Jack pulled up in front of the house indicated in Koslovs' map. At first glance, it resembled a decayed manor house, but closer inspection showed that the windows, though dark, were sound and the door looked secure.

"You two take the front, I'll go round the back." Jack said.

Steed and Emma made their way to the front door. As they reached it, it swung silently open.

"It seems we're expected." Emma remarked.

"So much has been obvious since yesterday." Steed replied. "If this is a trap, we are already in it, Mrs Peel. But we've dealt with traps before, haven't we? Shall we proceed?"

The welcoming party in the large hall numbered two, human and ex-military if Emma was any judge. They carried sub-machine guns.

"Weapons." One of them said, indicating the hall table. Emma surrendered her gun, while Steed set down his hat and umbrella. The guards made no attempt to search them, they must have had some sort of scanning device. Instead, the one who had spoken before gestured to an open door. "Through there."

The room was large and luxuriously furnished.

"Come in, sit down!" The voice was oddly inflected, as if it came from some kind of loudspeaker. "Let's not stand on ceremony. Life – your lives in particular – is far too short."

The speaker sprawled on a large, cushioned, throne-like chair at one end of the room. He, if it was male, would have been easily eight feet tall when standing, and seemed immensely fat. But the long arm with which he gestured them to seats was hard with muscle, and ended in a large hand with long, clawed fingers. The creature was oddly baby-faced, with large dark eyes, an upturned nose and cherubic mouth. His skin was green.

"Green, but not so little." Emma remarked as Steed and she sat down on the couch indicated by their 'host'. The creature chuckled jovially.

"Indeed, Mrs Peel!" A nictitating membrane passed across its eyes as it smiled at her. "Though there are some races in the Galaxy who would fit your description, we are not one of them.

"And here is our final guest! Where have you been, Captain Harkness? The Agency listed you as killed in action!"

"Things got complicated." Jack allowed, as he was escorted into the room by another armed guard and shown to an armchair. "So," he said, "you're from Raxacoricofallapatorius, and by your skin colour, you're a Slitheen."

The alien inclined his head. "I am Gast Fel-Fotch Passameer-Day Slitheen, current head of the glorious Family Slitheen."

Jack gave a bark of laughter. "Glorious? The last I heard your family are about one parking ticket away from exile!

"Bad enough you've broken virtually every law on your own world, but now you're attacking a protected planet."

"Oh, dear me!" Gast chuckled again. "I'm attacking no-one, Captain. I am simply here with a commercial proposition!"

He tapped a control set into the arm of his throne, and a section of the wall behind him slid away to reveal a large TV screen. It showed a dimly-lit chamber crowded with the alien plants they had encountered before.

"These remarkable plants," Gast told them, "are known by a name which translates into your tongue as 'Triffid'. They evolved on a planet in my home system and are remarkable in that they provide unsurpassed nutrition for almost any organic life-form in the Galaxy. However, they are a unique and pivotal part of the eco-system of their native world and as such, protected by law. It is illegal to remove them from their homeworld. Equally, because of some cowardly concerns about safety, it is forbidden to grow them on any planet in a territory signatory to the Shadow Proclamation."

"So, why are they here?" Steed asked.

Gast 'blinked' again, it seemed to be an indication of amusement. "Well, the law does allow for careful collection of scientific specimens. It seems one such collection went astray in this system. The seeds must have been scattered across your planet. Naturally, once the plant was discovered, it was cultivated for its food value.

"Then, of course, the tragedy occurred."

Gast reached down beside his chair and picked up an object he displayed to them. A sphere, about a foot in diameter, of some matte-black material.

"There was a race, now extinct, called the Brakkiri." He said. "They had a religion which demanded they conquer, but forbade them to kill. Now, that's common to most religions, as I understand the matter, but the Brakkiri took a different approach from most believers. Instead of inventing theological justifications for killing certain people, they simply became experts in non-lethal weaponry.

"These devices, for instance, can be seeded in low orbit around a planet by the thousand. Undetectable, inert, they can rest for months, years, even centuries. But, once they receive a signal, they begin to emit certain rays which kill the optic nerve of any being who sees in visible light. Imagine, almost and entire world blinded, defenceless!"

"So," Steed said quietly, "you persuade us to cultivate these plants. Then, when there are enough of them, you render most of humanity blind. Without sight, these Triffids have us at a disadvantage."

Gast nodded. "The plants are not intelligent as such. But they are drawn to sounds, especially those made by largish animals, such as humans. They have evolved a set of aggressively defensive behaviours designed to drive off the voracious herbivores of their own world."

"But what's the point?" Emma asked. "What do you get out of it?"

"He gets to exploit a loophole in the law." Jack growled. "Article 57 of the Shadow Proclamation states that no planet of less than Level Five advancement can be destroyed or invaded unless a crime has been committed by the inhabitants.

"But Subsection 15 of the Article states that if a Level 5 planet undergoes 'complete social and governmental collapse' and if that planet possesses 'weapons of mass destruction and/or economically vital resources' then any representative of a Proclamation signatory can take up the governorship of that world."

"For the safety and benefit of the entire Galaxy," Gast crowed, "the noble Family Slitheen will take over the onerous duty of caring for this poor planet, victims of a malfunctioning relic of a defunct race. The humans, sadly unable to adjust to the new state of affairs, will quickly become extinct, but the Triffids will thrive.

"There are hundreds of worlds in the Galaxy suffering food shortages, and it will be our duty to supply the needed food. At a reasonable profit, of course!"

"Of course." Jack said, then. "I think you guys have heard enough!"

There was a sudden commotion at both doors, a fusillade of automatic gunfire, followed by a series of wasplike snarls and the thuds of falling bodies.

Then half a dozen towering figures came into the room. The wore bulky black armour and carried guns which looked unfamiliar, but very lethal. One of them, whose armour bore a large and slightly flashy insignia, approached Gast and removed his oddly-shaped helmet, revealing a head resembling that of an intelligent rhinoceros. He spoke without preamble in a deep, rumbling voice.

"Gast Fel-Fotch Passameer-Day Slitheen, you are under arrest for violation of Article 57 of the Shadow Proclamation, planning to invade or destroy a Level Five Planet. You are also under arrest for seeding said planet with an alien life-form. Anything you say will be used in evidence. Any attempt to resist arrest will render you liable to summary execution. Do you wish to resist arrest?"

Gast did not, merely extending his hands for the cuffs. Apparently rather disappointed, the alien leader turned to Jack.

"The humans outside assaulted officers. They were found guilty and summarily executed. You will receive reports in due course. Regarding the matter of humans killed by extra-terrestrial life-forms, I am authorised to say that the Proclamation will seek compensation from the Family Slitheen, which your organisation will be deputised to disburse.

"Thank you for your co-operation. Enjoy the rest of your day."

Prisoner and escort left the room by vanishing in a blaze of blue-white light.

Jack shook his head ans turned to steed and Emma. "Judoon." He said. "Interplanetary police. Dogged, reliable, incorruptible, not too bright.

"That's why I wanted to get here alone today. I contacted the Shadow Proclamation last night, the channel's been open all this time. Gast gave the Judoon all the evidence they needed."

"So Torchwood is in contact with aliens, then." Steed said.

Jack shook his head. "Not Torchwood, just me. I have contacts and techniques Torchwood doesn't know about and, for now, doesn't need to. That's yet another reason I didn't want you guys here. You shouldn't have seen that, and the retcon serum is far from ready. I can't make you forget.

"I'll just have to trust you not to talk about this. To anyone"

During this, Steed had got up from the couch and moved over to the window. Now he fiddled absently with the blind while saying. "I'm sure we can come to an understanding."

Jack seemed relieved. "Good. Now if my guess is right, there's a cellar full of Triffids down there, plus all those alien weapons. I need to call my people and get them here to take it all in."

Steed turned and grinned at him. "That won't be necessary, Captain. It's all taken care of."

As Jack stared at him, the front door crashed in and with a thunder of boots a dozen soldiers came into the room. At their head was Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, who went over to Steed.

"Saw your signal with the blind. Everything done here?"

"Not quite, Brigadier. The, er, _person_ responsible for this affair has been taken into custody by the appropriate authorities. We won't be seeing him again, I think. But there are a great number of those dangerous plants in the cellar, and a number of these devices," he indicated the black sphere, "must be stored somewhere. All of it must be destroyed." Steed was quite firm as he said this, and Jack was clearly furious.

"Wait a minute!" He snapped. "This is Torchwoods' remit, not yours. All this belongs to us."

It was the Brigadier who replied. "I'm afraid that's no longer the case, Captain Harkness. As of yesterday, UNIT is officially active and our jurisdiction established. We've been aware of your unofficial motto for some time now: 'If it's alien, it's ours', you've been saying. No longer, I'm afraid.

"I'm afraid matters have moved on, Captain Harkness, and now military procedures will be followed. Any material deemed dangerous will from now on be seized and made safe by whatever means necessary, including destruction.

"The Torchwood Institute does have the right to lodge a formal complaint, but if you attempt to interfere in any way with this current operation, I will have you placed in custody.

"Now if you will excuse me... Captain Yates, let's get on with this."

It took both Steed and Emma to hustle a fuming Jack outside.

"When I get back to Torchwood..." He threatened.

"You will do and say nothing." Steed told him. "Your organisation is not the only one with gadgets, Captain Harkness."

He reached into this jacket and produced a tiny tape recorder. "I recorded everything that was said in there, including your admission to having contacts and information you've failed to share with your employers. Your silence buys ours, Captain, are we clear?"

Jack looked for a moment like a mutinous small boy, then he grinned dazzlingly. "OK, you've got me. Guess I'm just not used to being outmanoeuvred, huh?

"C'mon, I'll drive you back to the village."

Steed and Emma declined Jack's offer of a drink, they wanted to get back to London. They left him happily ensconced in the bar.

"Well, Steed," Emma said quietly, "That's been the strangest case we'll ever have!"

"Perhaps." He replied. "But I'm not so sanguine, Mrs Peel. The new century will be upon us far more quickly than people realise. What, I wonder, will it bring with it?"

"Oh, that's easy!" Emma told him. "Television sets you can play games on. Telephones you can carry in your pocket. Computers in the living room. Record players the size of cigarette packets..."

"Now, now, Mrs Peel," Steed chided her, "let's not indulge in outright fantasy!"


End file.
